


Prolonged goal celebration

by madridog (Cirilla9)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Body Worship, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/madridog
Summary: The coach walks in on a rather enthusiastic goal celebration in the locker room





	Prolonged goal celebration

**Author's Note:**

> Main inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGuz64S7nP0 (at the end, roughly from 2:50)
> 
> Zizou was meant to stay out of this but Croatians during this World Cup changed my mind: https://ladylannister95.tumblr.com/post/179122175176/elishamanning-%C5%A1ime-vrsaljko-celebrates-with

The coach opened the door to the locker room and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Zinedine didn’t know how he still could be under the false impression that these boys were grown up men after they proved him wrong time and again. He thought being a coach of a renowned UEFA club would differ from teaching PE in a high school full of horny teenagers. He should have really learnt by now that all these outside signs of maturity – muscled bodies, broad shoulders, tattoos, facial hair – were just an external illusion of manhood and on the inside the professional players still remained these infantile boys. They never acted like responsible adults.

It was his fault for lingering too long with the journalists but they asked him about the team and it was hard to resist the urge to comment on the amazing performance they conducted today and he ended up singing praises about his protégées before he fully comprehended what he was doing. It will go to the newspapers and they will all have their self-esteem, too big as it already was, even more blown up. But right now he could see the most imminent prize for leaving them unsupervised a moment too long: Cristiano lying stretched on the bench and the rest of the team all over him like a pack of hungry wolves.

Luka was pecking Cris’ chest with kisses, Gareth was mouthing at his neck. Marcelo tried to ease down Cris’ shorts despite the amount of groping hands on the way. Everyone seemed to want to get in touch, literally, with the hero of the match who scored the winning goal in the additional time.

Zizou understood the high from scoring a goal, he remembered what a powerful rush it was from the days when he was still an active player. He got the despair from the loss when some cried, he got the enthusiasm from the win. It affected every spectator, the coach more than the fans, yet for the players it was the strongest: when you run over an hour in sweat and hot temperature or rainy weather, exhausted and drained, but then it’s suddenly worth it all as you manage to kick the ball right into the net and the stadium is chanting your name and  your teammates jump at you, clap your back, ruffle your hair…

Youth has its rights plus a mix of extreme emotions could affect as much as alcohol some overindulged themselves in at the parties yet for it to happen to the whole team?

Marcelo and Sergio he could comprehend. The two jesters of the team were bound to cause mayhem at any time. They were first to dress Cibeles’ statue in Real Madrid scarf during official celebration of winning the Champions League, first to employ newly won award cup to some more creative use than standing on a shelf like brewing kettle of Panoramix in it. So perhaps it wasn’t much of a surprise Sergio was currently sucking at Cris ear shell, pausing to mutter something that made Cris laugh. Perhaps it shouldn’t shock Marcelo fumbled with Cris’ shorts that got caught somewhere at the striker’s knees. These two always had crazy ideas but it still stunned Zidane to see the rest of the team joining them unquestioningly, or rather, shall he say, excitingly.

Bad boys like Pepe he could eventually picture in such circumstances in some wild imaginations; emotional, eager to cuddle types like Isco didn’t seem too much out of place either; but guys like Bale? Zizou would never envision the introverted Welshman in a situation like that. Yet here he was, before Zinedine’s eyes, sweet, shy, reserved Gareth immersed just like everyone around, kissing wetly with Cristiano, snuggled close to his side. The only sign of his self-consciousness was hiding his face in the crook of Cris’ neck perhaps a bit more frequently than others did to plant a kiss on a delicate skin there or leave a hickey.

Zidane cleared his throat yet no one reacted, the coach doubted they even noticed his presence, so far they were gone on this prolonged goal celebration. And absolutely everyone in the locker room took part in this collective madness, there was not a single soul left out. They were all gathered around Cris, each trying to reach the hero of the moment. Those who could not break through the crowd already surrounding the Portuguese, contented themselves in getting the closest to them teammates stripped from the grass stained t-shirts and trunks.

Most of them was in various state of undress by now. Which, in itself, wasn’t too strange – they started that on the pitch, pulling off their shirts as soon as the match was over but back in the open it didn’t feel _that_ much sexual. Back then they were more or less conscious of the presence of journalists and audience and the coach himself; now all eyes were trained on Cris and they were all so absorbed in their fun none of them even glanced toward the doors as they clicked open and close, and Zizou stood in the threshold, staring, speechless with shock.

Sergio leaned over Cris’ shoulders, holding him down with a rakish smile, though the constriction was entirely unnecessary precaution as Cristiano didn’t look like he was going anywhere. He looked, in fact, so much at ease on his spot like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world at the moment.

The Portuguese superstar always enjoyed being in the center of attention, obviously it was no problem if that center happened to be located under the pyre of bodies of his teammates. How was he even able to breathe beneath that living mass, Zidane had no idea. Though Cris was clearly all right with that, more than all right judging by the beaming smile plastered on his face, visible whenever men surrounding him shifted just so to reveal the fragment of his expression.

His whole pose suggested complete relaxation and contentment. He basked in his colleagues’ attention, welcoming their caresses, extended hands to invite more of the touch, to get more physical contact; urging them to praise him, worship him like the god of football.

Marcelo finally, with the help from Karim who got impatient, managed to slid the Real Madrid white shorts off Cristiano completely, exposing more of the amazing muscles and smooth skin and leaving Cris in his briefs and boots only – both CR7 brand, of course, there wasn’t a part of Cris not covered in demanded from FIFA dress code that wouldn’t be of his own fashion line.

They still haven’t acknowledged Zizou’s presence and the situation from embarrassing was rapidly turning horrid as Jesús slid his hand under the CR7 briefs and Cris let out a sound that got straight to Zizou’s cock. He felt his own flesh hardening. No, he couldn’t just stand there. And it felt like the right moment to call the boys to order had passed with Navas taking a hold of his teammate’s prick - really, that kid had way too innocent name and eyes for what he was doing - so Zizou choose the only alternative left: the escape.

Holding his breath, cautiously, very slowly, he reached for the door handle behind him and pushed the hard plastic, fearing that the resounding click would betray his presence. He needn’t worry, no background sound could break through mingled moans, gasps and croons that came from his pupils.

It was close, so very close and he would made it, the doors were ajar already but then Marcelo turned to threw Cris’ briefs on the shelf and noticed him. They both froze in initial shock, one by being caught holding teammate’s underwear, the other by being caught staring at what was surely turning into an orgy.

Marcelo was the first to break out of it, a wide smile splitting his face.

“Coach, come and join us.” He beckoned. “You deserve thanks for the winning as well.”

And before Zizou knew what was happening, there were hands closing the doors behind his back, separating him from the escape way, arms pulling him closer. They ignored his initial protests, deaf at words of professional ethics. Perhaps he shall protested stronger.

Perhaps they smelt, felt it somehow that he was drawn in since he laid his eyes on them. Then it wasn't greatly difficult to tell his mood once they touched his hard on.

Soon his expensive suit was stripped down as efficiently as if it'd been sport attire and there were hands on his body, first hesitant, then more and more daring, getting bolder. Lips joined and then he could feel tongues lapping and teeth grazing at his neck, chest, arms, everywhere.

They crashed his weak to begin with barriers with no problems and Cris himself contributed to that. Damn him. His most talented player and he knew it and he knew Zinedine’s weakness and played it dirty against him.

“Aren't you proud of me, couch? Congrat me on winning. Didn't I deserve your praise?”

And Zidane knew he acted when Cris’ lips pouted but he couldn’t leave him with that expression of an unhappy boy (even though the man was in early thirties and the freed erect cock was totally ruining the impression). So he hugged him, embraced him like he did on the pitch, clapped his bare shoulder and muttered into his ear that he's awesome, that he's the best, the number one, that he, Zidane, is proud of him. He could almost physically feel the content emanating from the other man.

Then Cris turned his head just a little and their lips brushed, seemingly accidentally, and Zizou could feel the victory on him and just like that the last remnants of self-control were gone.

He grabbed Cris’ hair – it still had remains of gel in it but it didn’t put him off, rather turned him on even more because Cris was straight from the pitch here, like that he won the game – and kissed him hard, swallowing the needy sound and ecstasy of triumph with it.

The rest of the players still surrounded them, leaving Zizou a bit of space to get to the main star of the celebration, stepping aside like dogs before a pack’s leader yet they weren’t far. They stood so close that Zinedine could feel their excited breathes, their body heat, their occasional touch.

Conscious thinking was gone, he relied only on physical contact, on guiding hands and inviting words. He became lost in touches and pleasure and bare instinct to rub his aching hardness on someone’s muscled leg. Someone else’s hand slipped daringly between them, someone cheered, Cris arched beneath him.

“C’mon, come here, give me more, I need more…” Cris was turning incoherent but Gareth’s lips silenced him with a kiss.

Zizou didn’t went further that time, that crazy moment of abandon. He kept just rutting their cocks together. It was hard to resist Cris’ apparent wish, but actual penetration was the one last line he wouldn’t cross even though it probably didn’t mean much in the face of what he’d already engaged into.

His cock was trapped into delicious, slick with sweat hotness. Someone’s – he suspected Isco – stray hand encircled both of their cocks, squeezing gently. The heat, the friction, the direct stimulation had him undone in near embarrassingly short time and he was coming at Cris’ sun bronzed chest. He wanted to jerk Cris off to completion too but before he could gather strength and will to do so, there were hands pulling him off the Portuguese star and Marco’s lips enclosed on the still hard cock of writhing Cris.

Any free space around the man of the match was filled in a blink of an eye, everyone wanted his part in the decadence. Zizou just watched them, robbed of strength and right to complain, propped onto the cold locker behind his naked back.

Sergio produced a bottle of champagne from somewhere. Was it even allowed to have alcohol in the locker room?

“No celebration would be complete without a celebratory drink. Some fools here may not drink but we won’t let it waste,” announced the Real Madrid captain before uncorking the flask with a loud bang and showering the bunch of men surrounding Cris with the foaming liquid.

Guys were grinning and applauding loudly, most of them in the high of arousal and Zinedine couldn’t summon even a bit of indignation, so utterly he felt drawn into the atmosphere, so like one of them, the subtle line between the coach and the players dispersed completely, that he just joined the general loud happy cheers.

No longer in his youngest years, refractory period taking more time than once, he watched, spent, as the fun continued. Droplets of champagne now pearled on Cris tanned skin, hungrily licked and sucked by his teammates. Sergio disposed of the empty bottle and was now playfully kissing Cris’ foot, the left one, that gave them the winning goal. Marco was tore from his the best place, Luka’s and Gareth’s hands replaced his lips though Cris’ cock was limp so Marco must had got him off already. It didn’t stay soft long under the joined efforts of the forward and the midfielder.

Cristiano was in the core of everyone’s interest; everyone’s action, everyone’s attention focusing on him. There were lips on his chest, palms touching him with near godly reverence, licking, sucking, rubbing and kneading every part of his body. Those who couldn’t reach him through the crowd, jerked off themselves or their friends, eyes trained on the star all the time.

Cris writhed beneath them, inside they tight circle, put down and surrounded like a prey on the altar. Yet it didn’t feel for Zizou as if he was the submissive side here, on the contrary, if someone was serving, it was them. They glorified his body, adored him, celebrated his skills. If there was an objectification to it, so were God’s statues objectified.

Through the dreamlike mist of sex and alcohol fumes, Zizou observed as Sergio, wearing nothing but his tattoos, parted Cris’ legs, ignoring the half-hearted complains from Jesús for crowding his space. Eager hands provided condoms and lube and the captain took the star player before everyone’s eyes, to common joy of the gathered team.

Marcelo went next, with some hesitation.

“You sure you still want more?” he asked, leaning over his friend, who lied there with a blissed-out look on his face.

Cristiano’s only answer was a smug smile and pulling the Brazilian closer by the dark soft cloud of his hair. The dark brown ringlets sprang free in all directions again as soon as Cris let go of them.

“Are you guys taking him in captaincy order?” Isco asked with a grin lightening his whole person. Marco was hugging him from behind, pulling toward the less crowded side of the room.

Pepe looked up, interested, from where Sergio and Raphael were fondling him. Karim’s attention seemed picked up as well.

“Hey, guys, don’t overdo it,” Luka, as always good-natured, tried to placate everyone.

“Easy, Lukita,” Mateo kissed him on the cheek, “no one’s doing anything against anyone’s will. But he can take at least hat-trick, no?”

Marcelo laughed, his pounding into Cris wavering. Cristiano twisted his head back to wink at Mateo, not in the least self-conscious, still flaunting his charm, “sure”.

They seemed to forgot about Zizou as the orgy from something resembling bukkake begun to split into smaller groups, threesomes or couples. And Zinedine was quite happy with such a turn, he sat at his place, trying not to attract attention.

As Marcelo’s turn finished, Cris looked completely sated and dazed. Yet it was never in this man’s nature to stop at the limits of average people. He grabbed Gareth’s hand.

Zizou didn’t see Cris’ expression from his place but he saw Gareth’s answering blush at whatever the Portuguese wordlessly proposed him. That was it, thought Zinedine, he needed to get out of here at least. He gathered his clothes, the only distinctive attire on the floor cluttered with Real Madrid jerseys. No wonder his players happened to dress wrong shorts if the halftimes looked vaguely similar to this debauchery.

Zinedine pulled on his trousers, didn’t waste time on shirt and jacket and sneaked to the door.

“You leaving us so soon, coach?” Marcelo called after him woefully. He could pretend sadness only for a shortest while and his natural happiness was peering through the facade even so.

Zinedine looked at the grinning athlete and wondered how could anyone take this incarnation of devil for an angel.

However this time no one was inclined to stop him, all boys interested in each other far too much. Sergio somehow drifted to Luka, trading playful punches with Mateo, Marco had Isco all for himself, Cris slid from the bench to the floor, where Gareth seemed more open to possibilities partially hidden from other’s sight.

Zizou casted one last look at the locker room and shook his head.

“I think loitered here too long already,” he said and slipped out of the den of iniquity.


End file.
